


Like I'm Burning With Thirst, Let Me Drink You

by oneforyourfire



Series: Suho Birthday Sextravaganza [4]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10903722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: “Drink me,” Yixing whispers, all drawled and breathy, because Yixing’s words are always simple, always sure, declarative statements, unashamed imperatives, pure, bare, honest, without artifice or shame. (aka sulay do body shots and do something about their boners au)





	Like I'm Burning With Thirst, Let Me Drink You

**Author's Note:**

> [nobody but you~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ell7q83gQks)

Yixing shivers bodily at the first swipe of Joonmyun’s tongue on his neck, and Joonmyun expects him to pull away. But he doesn’t, stays perfectly, perfectly still instead. 

His skin is warm beneath Joonmyun’s tongue, salty, trembling from the contact, and oh it’s somehow headier than the sharp burn of alcohol he sucks from Yixing’s collarbone, than the shots he’d taken from a glass, a plastic cup, too, more dizzying than the hazy cloud of cigarette smoke, the hazy thrum of bass speakers rattling through his skin.

Yixing—the way he makes Joonmyun feel—it always manages to crawl just just just beneath his skin, just just just beneath that first layer of protection and proprietary, just just just enough to unsettle and undo him, just just just enough to leave him tense with aborted, half-formed, half-indulged desire. 

Yixing’s fingers squeeze at his bicep—hard, and Joonmyun tips forward to suck the lime from between Yixing’s parted lips. 

He bites hard as he pulls away, blinking past the sting, smarting at it as he meets Yixing’s sleepy, burning, burning eyes. 

Someone—Chanyeol?—whoops. Another—Baekhyun—claps his back. And Joonmyun has to lean against the wall to recover, nursing another liquor-filled Solo cup, gulping it quickly to swallow past the confusion, the aborted, half-formed, half-indulged desire. 

Someone else—Jongin—jumps on the table, nudging Yixing to the side. He drapes himself across the rickety surface, flushing darkly but laughing charmingly as Kyungsoo lifts his shirt.

And it’s Kyungsoo’s turn to lick, drink, suck, Joonmyun’s to whoop.

His heart isn’t in it, his mind somewhere else. His fingers tremble around the cheap plastic of his cup as he sets it down—coasterless—on a bookshelf. 

 

Yixing joins him on the wall three beats later, swaying absently to the filthy beat still oozing through the speakers. He’s drinking, too, leaning on him heavily, staring at him with those same sleepy, burning, burning eyes. 

Joonmyun doesn’t know why Yixing agreed to it, or why he did, doesn’t understand the maelstrom of feelings whirling in his own body. Or maybe just doesn’t want to. 

He watches his own shoes—scuffed slightly—instead of meeting Yixing’s gaze further, then his throat when Yixing finally speaks. “It tickled,” he says, reaching up to rub the exact spot on his throat that Joonmyun had licked, then the exact spot on his sternum, then his mouth. His bottom lip puckers with the pressure. “I liked it,” he says, shoulders rolling forward with the confession. He sets down his drink, too. 

The fabric of his shirt shifts, gapes. It’s loose enough for Joonmyun’s fingers to fit underneath, loose enough for Joonmyun to explore, memorize, worship—if he chooses, but he doesn’t, tenses his shaking fingers into his pants instead, lets Yixing press him further back against the wall, too close, close, close. 

Joonmyun’s mouth skims his throat again, and Yixing shivers again, but doesn’t pull away now either, presses even closer. His breath is hot and shivery at Joonmyun’s temple, and Joonmyun quells a shudder, unsettled, undone.

“Drink me,” Yixing whispers, all drawled and breathy, because Yixing’s words are always simple, always sure, declarative statements, unashamed imperatives, pure, bare, honest, without artifice or shame. And it’s Yixing’s mouth against his neck now, the teasing swipe of his tongue on the hollow of Joonmyun’s throat, his labored breathing searing across his skin. Bold, bold, bold. It’s Joonmyun’s gasp. “Drink me,” he repeats, and Joonmyun’s head tips back, hands stumble over the gaps in Yixing’s shirt, over the soft, shuddery skin beneath, the ripple of his ribs, his abs. 

Yixing’s are dancer’s hips, fluid and powerful, but there’s still an edge of graceless desperation to them as he pins him to the wall, pushes forward suddenly, insistent and hot and hard. His hands wind around Joonmyun’s waist, thumb teasing beneath the fabric of his clothing. 

Goosebumps bloom across his skin, and an ocean of desire swells within him. 

And oh, maybe this has been a long time coming. 

Joonmyun arches into the touch, rocks back, lets his hands skate lower, press firmer, mapping, exploring, memorizing, worshipping, sliding boldly, breathlessly along the waistband of his pants, then curling just beneath. The denim of Yixing’s pants is painted on, and Joonmyun groans at the heat he can feel radiating off him, louder when Yixing presses forward even harder, thigh dragging between Joonmyun’s legs. A tremor crawls up his spine. 

Yixing’s lips pucker and part with a moan, and Joonmyun lolls his head back, groans directly into his ear at the clumsy, dirty, dirty grind. He can feel the ridge of his hardening cock against his, the heavy pulse of it as Yixing whispers—simple, sure,bare, honest, without artifice or shame—about wanting him, wanting more.

And more, it’s stumbling into Chanyeol’s bathroom, the door locked behind them, the room cast a pale, haunted white in the weak moonlight. More, it’s Joonmyun leaning his head back against the walled mirror, elbows knocking along the soap and toothbrush holder on the counter. More, it leaves him pinned to the surface, panting, with Yixing’s mouth at his throat once more.

Chanyeol has a world map shower curtain, and when Yixing noses down Joonmyun’s throat, bites, Joonmyun kicks out blindly, gasps, arches deliriously and sees Yixing haloed by Greenland. He scrapes his fingernails down Yixing’s straining spine, and Yixing’s back curves into the touch. 

“Drink me,” he urges again, the appeal pressed to his shoulder now, but he curls one large, warm hand behind Joonmyun’s neck, coaxes him forward into a kiss instead. And Joonmyun drinks down his soft moans, his breathy exhalations, moans, too, exhales breathily, too, at the slick push and retreat of Yixing’s tongue in his mouth. 

Yixing kisses like he talks, like he wants—pure, bare, honest, without artifice or shame—just a singular, dizzying _desire_ that leaves Joonmyun unsettled and undone and overheated and hard, hard, hard.

So hard it _aches_ as Yixing curls forward again, rocking into him as he kisses him deeper, hotter. And the friction, it’s debilitating.

There’s just something so unsettling hot in the ease and boldness and unmasked desire of his touches and words, something in the way that Yixing’s fingers skip over the front of his tented pants. Yixing, he doesn’t seem to know that wanting Joonmyun should be a subtle, quiet, confusing, half-way shameful thing, doesn’t know that he should want Joonmyun as Joonmyun wants him. He curls his fingers lower, exhales shakily against Joonmyun’s throat as Joonmyun’s hands stumble over his cock, too. 

And from there, it’s so, so easy to tug themselves lose, so, so easy to press close again. It’s so easy, so right, right, right, hot, hot, hot, hard, hard, hard. 

Yixing bites his lower lip as he watches him through heavy lashes, and there’s something about Yixing, about the darkness in his eyes or the plushenss of his lips or the force of his touches of the heaviness of his cock that makes this too, too perfect to resist. 

It’s too dry, too fast, too clumsy, and mabye with someone else, maybe with someone that didn’t make Joonmyun feels so much—though aborted, though half-formed, though half-indulged—maybe it’d be bad, maybe Joonmyun would stop. But it isn’t and Joonmyun feels and wants and need too mcuh to even think of stopping. Finally, finally, finally honest with himself. 

Pleasure sears through his body as Yixing puts more force behind his thrusts, slides his fingers down to fist them both, murmurs something sibilant and breathy, fond or filthy, Joonmyun isn’t sure, but he moans at the sound nonetheless, claws at Yixing’s shoulders as his thighs tremble with pleasure. 

Yixing goes, goes, goes, and the pleasure builds, builds, builds, the friction burns, burns, burns. 

Yixing moans softly when he comes, lips, eyelashes, teeth, dimple skimming Joonmyun’s throat, fingers stumbling in their rhythm. Hard, tight, tight, tight.

And it takes the smallest thing—the cut of Yixing’s teeth on his Adam’s apple, the raspiest moan of his name, raw and pure and bare and honest, without artifice or shame—it takes _nothing at all_ for Joonmyun to come, too, falling further back against the counter as his body seizes sharply with climax.

**Author's Note:**

> 4/11
> 
> "salt"


End file.
